My Fair Mistress (29 page)
At length, Julianna appeared, looking pretty as an apple blossom in a gown of cream and pale green. Head down, she hurried out of the house. Even from a distance, he could see the ruddy stain of color across her cheeks, the swollen cast to her lovely, exotic features.
He hated himself for making her cry, for having put that glazed look of betrayal and pain in her eyes. She’d taken his rejection harder than he’d thought she would.
Hell, I took it harder,
he thought,
the deed far, far worse than even my worst expectations.
Right after he’d first told her, when he saw her shock and unhappiness, he’d felt himself hesitate. For a moment his resolve had wavered and he’d found himself on the verge of taking her in his arms and confessing the truth, telling her that everything he’d just said was a lie.
But then he’d remembered his reasons, remembered St. George and the potential danger he represented. Regardless of his wishes or hers, Julianna must remain safe and unharmed. That single fact held precedence over all else. And so he’d continued, forcing himself to say the words, making himself end what neither of them wished to end. When it was over, he felt as if he’d taken that last bit of her innocence and ground it under his boot heel.
For a moment, he’d felt like a monster, worse even than St. George.
Yet when it came to the bracelet, he had not meant what she thought. It had been an idiotic idea, he realized now. When he’d purchased the gemstones, he’d taken great care in his selection, wanting to find something beautiful and lasting that she could keep as a memento of their union. Instead, he’d made a complete hash of things, and hurt her even more deeply. He’d tried to apologize but had stopped, realizing the futility of the attempt. After all, what could he say?
He’d meant to drive her away, and he had succeeded admirably. So why did knowing he’d done it for all the right reasons feel like such cold comfort now?
Taking one final glimpse, he watched her climb into the hack. With a flick of the reins, the driver set the carriage in motion. Far too quickly, the vehicle and its occupant disappeared into the distance.
A long time passed before he drove himself home.
Burton St. George shoved his plate aside in disgust.
“Couldn’t you do better than that slattern you’ve hired in the kitchens, Hurst? I’ve seen more palatable fare tossed out for pigs and rats. Why, I bet even your dogs won’t eat this slop.”
He stabbed a fork into the half-burnt, half-raw piece of chicken on his plate and flung it onto the floor, where Hurst’s three hounds lay before the hearth. Two of them rose in interest, but after a few inquiring sniffs, the dogs returned to their earlier spots, the inedible fowl abandoned.
“See?” Burton declared. “What did I tell you?”
Stephen Hurst poured himself another glass of ruby-red Bordeaux, drank down half, then swiped a palm across his mouth. “Sorry, old man, but I didn’t have many options, what with the rush to leave Town and all. Had to take what servants I could find.”
Which leaves slim pickings, considering the wages Hurst is willing to pay,
Burton thought. Given the current emptiness of his own pockets, however, he supposed he had little right to complain.
Grinding his teeth at the realization, he leaned forward and plucked a peach out of the silver epergne in the center of the table.
Even Hurst’s sluttish cook can’t ruin this,
he mused. Opening his penknife, he began to peel the fruit.
“Thought we might take in some fishing tomorrow,” Hurst suggested. “The trout run thick in the lakes this time of year.”
Idiot drunk,
Burton thought as he chewed a slice of peach.
Listen to him prattle on as if the two of us really did come up here on holiday.
If he’d had any other choice, he’d never have set foot in the Lancashire countryside. But with his recent financial setbacks and his lamentable failure to spirit off Lady Maris as his bride, he’d decided it prudent to remove himself from Town for a while.
When he returned in a few months’ time, should rumors of her attempted abduction still be on the wind, he would declare his innocence and feign ignorance of the entire matter. After a while, enough people would believe his lies so that the scandal would fade away into nothing more than a nine-day wonder.
He understood that crippled do-gooder, Waring, had come looking for him, wanting to demand satisfaction.
The fool should be glad I didn’t stay to take up his challenge,
he thought.
As a skilled marksman, I would have enjoyed putting a bullet between the good major’s eyes.
A smile turned up the corners of his mouth at the notion, but his pleasure quickly evaporated as he recalled the other news he’d heard, that the inestimable Lady Maris was now engaged to the major.
Hadn’t taken Waring long to cast aside his lily-white honor and cash in on Maris’s fat dowry,
he mused.
He thrust his knife deep into the fleshy peach, juice running like blood over his fingertips.
Hurst emptied the last of a wine bottle into his glass. “Demmed glad we came up here. A man can relax instead of having to watch his back all the time.”
Burton stifled a sigh. Was Hurst singing that tired old tune again?
“He has spies everywhere, you know,” Hurst continued.
“I assume by
he
that you mean Pendragon?”
“Who else? Had to dismiss one of my footmen after I caught the weasel reporting on me.”
Burton’s interest increased marginally. He selected another peach from the epergne. “Caught him how?”
“Followed him one night, down to a tavern. Bloody snoop sat there having a drink for near an hour. I was beginning to think my suspicions about him were wrong when who walks in but Pendragon’s giant, Hannibal. The two of them sat whispering thick as thieves, little traitor telling him God knows what about me.”
The story gave Burton pause. Perhaps Hurst wasn’t as shatter-brained as he’d thought. “What did you do? Did you confront your man?”
“No. Just sacked him a few days later. I didn’t want word getting back to Pendragon that I was on to him.”
“Why didn’t you mention this to me earlier?”
Hurst’s hand shook slightly as he drained his glass. “Well, you’d told me not to bother you about such matters.”
Burton ignored the reminder as he set down the fruit and dried his hands on a napkin. “Anything else you’ve noticed?”
Hurst perked up at the query. “I feel as if I’m being watched wherever I go. He’s trying to rattle me, that’s what I think, rattle me and put me off my nerve. And now that I know about that rat in my house, I suspect he may have riffled through some of my personal papers and belongings. Maybe the run of bad luck I’ve been having these past few years isn’t happenstance, after all.” He made a sweeping gesture with his glass, causing a dollop of red wine to splash onto the white tablecloth. “I tell you, Middleton, he’s after us. He’s taken down Underhill and Challoner and now he’s coming for the pair of us.”
Burton considered the matter anew.
Before, when Hurst had carried on about the topic, he’d dismissed it as nonsense. Now he wasn’t so sure. Hurst was a drunk and a paranoid, but perhaps a few of his ravings had merit. Not even Hurst could have imagined the meeting between his footman and Pendragon’s man at the tavern.
Then there was Burton’s own unfortunate streak of bad luck lately. Lucrative investments unexpectedly gone sour. Creditors suddenly unwilling to extend additional lines of credit.
“For all you know, Pendragon sabotaged your plans for that Davies girl,” Hurst said. “A few words whispered in the right ears might have been enough to scare her and her family away.”
Burton scowled.
“You’d do better to look for a rich Cit’s daughter next time,” Hurst suggested, his slurred words showing how deeply he was into his cups. “Shameful lineage and all that, but for enough money anything can be overlooked, eh? And if you get tired of her, you can always send her on a quick trip down the stairs.”
Burton grew still. “What did you say?”
“Said you can always do her in like you did your first wife.”
Hurst froze and clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes widening. “Oh, didn’t mean to mention it,” he said in a loud, overly apologetic whisper. “Never would say a peep to anyone, Middleton, you know that. Your secrets are
my
secrets. After all, haven’t I kept quiet all these years about what we did to that girl? That little blondie who was supposed to marry Pendragon.” He rubbed a hand over his dissipated face. “Shouldn’t have done it, you know, raped that girl. It was fun and all at the time, but look where it’s got us. That’s what set him against us, why he’s sworn to do us in. You should have killed him years ago when you had the chance. But I guess it’s hard to kill kin even when they’re some bastard half brother you hate.”
Cold fury flowed through Burton. How dare Hurst call that wretched piece of scum his father had sired his
brother!
He had
no
brothers, as his mother had pointed out from the time he’d been a young boy. She’d told him about his father’s “other family,” refusing to shield him from the degrading truth, as she’d called it.
When his father went away on one of his many trips, Burton had known it was because he’d rather spend time with his doxy and her unholy brat than share it with his real family. He remembered the tears his mother had shed, the pain in her eyes whenever she spoke of his father. He remembered her anguish, her humiliation, and had vowed years ago to assuage it.
He’d done what he could to ease her suffering while she’d been alive. How he’d relished the chance, when it finally came, to toss his father’s whore quite literally out into the cold and strip his father’s bastard of everything he held dear.
Ah, those had been sweet moments indeed. But he saw now it had not been enough.
No, with Pendragon it was
never
enough.
Deadly calm, Burton finished eating his peach.
“You seem to know a great deal about me, Hurst,” he remarked as he patted his lips clean against his napkin. “More, I must say, than I had realized.”
“I’ve got a good eye for detail, even if I’m foxed half the time. Write some of it down, too, don’t you know.”
Burton’s fingers tightened against the napkin. “Really? And where do you do this writing, pray tell?”
“Oh, I keep a journal. Have for years. Helps me sometimes when I can’t sleep.”
“And what do you say in this journal?”
“Oh, most anything that comes to mind, just random thoughts. Latest conquests, a good bit of liquor I drank, latest mills and routs and such.”
“And am I included in any of these musings?”
Hurst scuttled his brow. “You must be mentioned a time or two, but don’t worry, I know how to keep mum.” He tapped a finger against the side of his nose.
Yes,
Burton thought,
I am beginning to realize just how well Hurst keeps secrets. The cabbage-head has probably detailed all of our dealings together over the years, from the rape to my wife’s murder. I must get my hands on that journal and see for myself what it contains.
“So do you have it with you?” Burton asked, striving to sound casual.
“Have what?”
“The journal.”
“No, in the hurry to leave, I forgot it back in my townhouse. I’ll have to make a trip into the village to get a fresh one.”
“Yes, you must do that. Perhaps we’ll go tomorrow if we aren’t fishing.”
J
ULIANNA HURRIED INTO her townhouse and up the stairs to her bedchamber, desperate to be alone. Somehow, during the ride home, she’d managed to hold back most of her tears, but a floodgate threatened again.
Daisy entered the room scant moments after, stopping to exclaim over the sight of Julianna’s swollen, tear-ravaged face.
“My lady, whatever has occurred? Are you unwell?”
Unwell?
Yes,
Julianna thought,
I am most unwell. My heart is shattered.
She pressed the heel of one hand against her eyes and struggled to control her emotions.
The affair is done,
she cautioned herself,
and I will think of him no more. From this moment forth, Rafe Pendragon does not exist.
